Page 1 of Greed: The Savage (Seven Deadly Sins #7)

O ver the years, Addien “Snap” Killoran, employed by London’s wickedest club, the Devil’s Den, kept her head down and executed her charge with care. And for her service, the head proprietor, the Earl of Dynevor, showed Addien patience, grace, and most importantly, he’d been generous with her wages.

Granted, as one he’d brought in from the streets to turn out the courtesans and silk-skin queenies for the wicked performances they paid to be part of, Addien’s work didn’t require much skill.

When it came to her own dress, Addien didn’t bother with frills.

Her black hair, dark and long as her past, she tied in a knot, never with a fine bow.

But when it came to the Devil’s Den women, Addien turned their hair up real fine.

From there, a fancy gown was a fancy gown.

Addien had an opulent wardrobe of sheer silks and satins from which to choose for the doves.

And when it came time for Addien to meet the French modistes—modistes who were about as French as Addien was a blueblood—she carried the provocative numbers that’d elicited the biggest response from a crowd of gilded rakes and suggested more daring modifications.

As it stood, Dynevor’s freehandedness extended to all those in his employ at the Devil’s Den—as long as they were loyal and hardworking.

And for those who weren’t? Addien, like everyone else who worked there, had witnessed his lordship’s wrath.

If you were the one to betray his lordship, you’d made an enemy greater than Satan himself.

After he’d plucked her from the streets and provided her a roof over her head, food, security, and all the things which she’d been deprived of in the course of her entire existence as a street rat born to some unnamed, unknown prostitute and her client, Addien had grown up just like every other guttersnipe in London, with no idea as to who her parents were.

As such, the Earl of Dynevor was her brother, father, and savior, all rolled into one.

They’d met by chance. He’d come upon her taking a savage striking from a constable.

The earl broke the burly bastard’s truncheon in two as easily as he might a willow toothpick, and he had then promptly thrashed the supposed man of the law with one of the broken ends.

That day, Addien stood in awe of not only the dark-clad gent’s strength, but that he’d used it on her behalf.

Granted, she had pilfered that over-ripe apple from a vendor on the street. But she’d been so riveted by Dynevor’s impressive display of violence, it’d taken her until about midway through that constable’s thrashing to feel compelled to share that important detail about her guilt.

The Earl of Dynevor, casual as could be, not even a speck of sweat clinging to him, looked up.

He gave the constable one last hit with the broken stick and then paid the hawker not only for the apple she’d availed herself of, but also a fortune to cover the cost of all the vegetables and fruits on his cart.

At that moment, she’d vowed to lay down her life for him. He’d assured her he’d never require such steep repayment.

Still, she’d committed her life to him and the success of his notorious gaming hell.

She worked hard for him and gave him her utmost loyalty.

Not because she feared him, but because she revered him.

But still, when one was summoned, any person—man, woman or child—would be wise to be wary, and Addien was no exception.

“Oi, he isn’t going to bite, Snap.”

Mortified that she’d been caught unawares, Addien turned towards the owner of that weathered but smooth voice.

He might have a surname. He might not. Here at the club, most didn’t. He was simply Roy.

As Dynevor’s lead messenger, when he wasn’t quickly and discreetly carrying messages or warnings between guards, patrons, and the head proprietors, he was one of the club’s strongmen.

He had the build of a bear and the scars of a warrior from long ago who’d been resurrected from the Dark Ages and inserted into the cobbled streets of London. It was hard for someone with her past not to be impressed by him.

Grateful for the distraction from her impending meeting, she gave him a wry grin. “You should know better than to sneak up on a person,” Addien said with a drawl.

He returned her smile. “And ye should know better than to let yourself get sneaked up on.”

“Oi knew you were there,” she lied.

His laugh said he knew it.

Had Addien’s employer not summoned her, she’d have been slaphappy at the big guard’s banter. Secretly, she’d come to enjoy the hard man’s company.

At once, he was all business. “Dynevor’s waiting.”

In fairness, that’s how they all operated. There were moments of levity that popped up in between long, hard hours at the Devil’s Den.

The reminder of her impending appointment quashed that flicker of enjoyment she’d found at Roy jesting and jibing with her.

The tight knot returned to Addien’s stomach. She’d never been one of those sorts to cower before people in the streets. Girls, especially, were eaten up and spit out and then devoured for showing any weakness.

Addien prided herself on her resilience, defiance, and detachedness. Nevertheless, somewhere inside, she was still the scared girl who’d taken one final, brutal beating from the gang leader, Mac Diggory, before she’d slinked off, found her way to the foundling hospital, and never returned.

Reaching up, she rapped once with a firm fist.

“Oi, enter!”

Addien made her way inside.

As was his usual, the Earl of Dynevor sat behind a rich, mahogany partner’s desk, as commanding as the man seated there.

While Addien closed the door, Dynevor pored over ledgers in his usual state of dress: absent of any fine cravat, his raven-black jacket discarded, and his crisp white linen shirt gaping open at the front.

Addien considered him while he worked. Having come across all sorts in her life, she’d found all men put on some kind of show. Every single minute motion was part of a grander facade. That was, everyone she’d ever known except for the owner of the Devil’s Den.

What you saw with Dynevor was what you got. When he was bent over his books, he was working. When he was viewing a new hire for the club, he was fierce and threatening, a product of establishing superiority and strength before his lesser hires.

The gentleman of rank was an interesting blend of streets mixed with royalty.

Both served him well.

With Addien tasked with dressing peeresses, while working and living with other scraggers like herself, she had long envied Dynevor that duality which allowed him to comfortably move between people and worlds.

At last, Lord Dynevor dropped his pen and looked up.

He didn’t mince words. “It is time for a talk.”

A talk.

Sod it.

Addien put herself in motion.

Lord Dynevor held her fast.

She followed the wave of his hand over to the pair of chairs with long wings, broad arms, and trimmed with brass nail heads.

The only hospitable thing about those stately seats was the position they held beside the powerful fire burning in the slate hearth.

Despite the warmth of the season, regardless of month or temperature outside, Lord Dynevor always had a powerful fire built.

They said it was because of his affinity for the flame, given the years he’d spent as a lead arsonist for Mac Diggory.

Addien agreed with those whisperers too.

And yet she found herself easing onto the indicated perch with somewhat less trepidation.

This was the same chair he’d invited her to use when he’d brought her back to the Devil’s Den after her beating. Here, he’d interviewed Addien. He’d spoken to her about an available position.

This wasn’t the sacking spot—as those chairs at his desk had come to be known.

I am safe.

Not that there had been anything even remotely close to a sackable offense, or even something remotely insulting, or an inadvertent transgression in her duties, but when one lived a lifetime without security, there weren’t any certainties—that was, other than death.

The glorious gift of stability one found could be yanked out from under one’s feet with the same speed with which it’d been granted.

Only after Addien had gotten herself comfortable did Lord Dynevor avail himself of the place across from her.

This was one of the things that’d earned the earl admiration from his staff.

He still reserved the same respect for the ladies of the ton that he did for his menial laborers.

He may have been born to nobility, but he’d also toiled and survived in the streets the same as the rest of them.

And when he, a lost lord of London, was restored to his former seat of glory as the beloved son of a marquess, Dynevor never forgot the people and the streets he’d left behind.

And when he’d become a man, he’d returned to those same streets and people.

She waited for him to speak.

Addien was bound to be left waiting.

Dynevor fetched himself a cheroot from the silver tray, neatly stacked with cheroots and cigars, in what was a gentleman’s version of the pretty porcelain candy dishes filled with comfits, sugar plums, and crystalized fruits for the lady patrons.

Even while he fetched a flintlock lighter and struck a flame to his rolled-bit, Dynevor spoke. “I have a new role for you here at the Devil’s Den.”

He never minced words, and Addien, having been lulled into a sense of ease, now found herself shaken up proper.

Her head spinning, Addien jumped to her feet.

“ What ?” Her voice became pitchy with annoyance and anger and not a little bit of fear.

“Have I done something to displease you? Did oi fail in my responsibilities?” She wavered in and out of her cockney.

“Because if I did, you need just inform me what my cock-ups were and oi will—”